Reviewed by Sander M. Goldberg, University
of California (Los Angeles).

Gian Biagio Conte's first work in English, The Rhetoric of
Imitation, had the merit of introducing Americans to one of Italy's
most productive and provocative readers of Latin poetry. That was,
however, less a coherent book than a sampler drawn from a variety of
earlier works. Its unity was necessarily somewhat contrived, and in the
process C.'s scholarly style suffered some distortion.1 With the appearance of two more translated works,
the picture has become much clearer, and his contribution to Latin
studies is easier to assess.

Genres and Readers, too, is a
composite work. Its chapters on Lucretius, Ovid, and the elder Pliny were
conceived as introductions to Italian editions and translations. A fourth
chapter on genre theory was written for a University of Texas symposium
in 1990. (These four essays comprise the Italian edition of the present
book, Generi e lettori [Milan 1991].) The fifth, a kind of
retrospective entitled "The Rhetoric of Imitation as a Rhetoric of
Culture," was presented, along with what is now Charles Segal's foreword,
at a symposium on Professor Conte's work sponsored by the Vergilian
Society at the APA Annual Meeting of 1991. Those two essays have already
appeared in Vergilius 30 (1992). The Texas paper, under the title
"Empirical and Theoretical Approaches to Literary Genre," was printed in
Karl Galinsky's volume, The Interpretation of Roman Poetry: Empiricism
or Hermeneutics? (Frankfurt 1992), and the essay on Ovid's Remedia
amoris appeared in Poetics Today 10 (1989). Thus only the
chapters on Lucretius and Pliny are entirely new to English-speaking
readers. The volume as a whole is nevertheless much better integrated than
RI. It is also much better translated, without the jargon that
occasionally mars that earlier representation of C.'s ideas. The voice
here is more clearly his own, and it is time to do some serious
listening.

"I was not born a theoretician," he tells us, "and
theory is not my job; nor do I wish to train a generation of
theoreticians. I am a philologist who is happy with his job and who is
only trying to explain what he encounters in texts" (131). This is true
and important. Despite the occasional claims of his American handlers, C.
is not a theorist, and he does not make advances in literary theory. In
fact, the one significant flaw in Genres and Readers is its lack of
clarity on theoretical matters.

C. is aware, for example, that
literary critics have abandoned naive talk of an author's intention. He
therefore distinguishes what the author intends from what he calls "the
text's intentionality" (xix). All this distinction produces, however, are
odd and improbable personifications like "the Lucretian text's intention
to transfigure Epicurus" (3) and "the interpretation of phenomena
collected by Pliny's text" (88). C. himself can still refer
interchangeably to "Pliny" and to "Pliny's text" (e.g. 87- 88), nor does
he flinch from saying that "Virgil chooses a lofty voice for his text" or
that "for Virgil, writing like Homer meant composing a work that could
replace Homer's" (140). This last sounds to me very like a
statement of authorial intent.2 C. doubtless
relies on the fact that
modern students of literature know that "authors" are largely
back-formations from our own experience as readers and that "Virgil" thus
becomes as much a critical shorthand as a proper noun. Not that C.'s
distinction is meaningless. There are indeed verbal productions --
folktales, for example -- that do require us to speak of a text's
intentionality because they lack authors. Folklorists face genuine
difficulties in distinguishing tales from their tellings, performances
from the things performed, and creation from reception. For them, the
ideas of text, author, and intention are thoroughly problematic. Literary
scholars have a considerable advantage, which we ought to admit without
embarrassment or apology.

A second distinction between "the
reader-addressee" and "the reader-interpreter" (xx) is much more
significant and proves especially helpful in the chapter on Lucretius.
C.'s observation of how DRN makes the reader responsive to its
message by inducing discomfort with rival ways of thinking is valuable
(23-24). Nor is the work's pattern of direct address merely a stylistic
ornament: "Memmius" is the poem's creation and only notionally the praetor
of 58. Yet the best demonstration of Lucretius' power over readers is not
C.'s cool and urbane discussion, but the smoldering passion of William
Ellery Leonard's comparable essay, which is as strikingly honest a
response to the poem as it is unfashionable a quest for Lucretius the
man.3 And here again, some of C.'s most
interesting suggestions suffer from the insecurity of their theoretical
base. We are told, for example, that Epicurus appears at the beginning of
Book 1 as a Homeric hero prepared to duel against the evils
of religion, an observation C. illustrates from Iliad 17.166 ff.,
where Glaucus reproaches Hector for not facing Ajax in single combat. The
example is chosen for its verbal parallels, but in what sense is it truly,
as C. claims, Lucretius' "model"? If the allusion is to an epic topos,
why choose this one Homeric instance rather than another, and why choose a
negative instance? C. is surprisingly unclear on what literary
modeling means in such a context, and readers will not find help in
RI. The point here about Epicurus is far more attractive than his
earlier claims that Catullus 101 deliberately recalls the
Odyssey proem or that Venus' intervention in Aeneid 2 is
modeled on Athena's role in Iliad 1. Neither of those parallels
withstands scrutiny: the philological arguments were faulty and C.
confused his associations as a reader with those of Catullus and Vergil as
writers. The basic insights here are much better and deserve fuller
arguments in support.

The other problem with C.'s occasional nods
to theory is the unnecessarily turgid and portentous language they induce.
Examples: Lucretius' embrace of didactic poetry makes poetic expression
"the noble raiment of a discourse that rediscovers its adequate
codification, the necessary form of a discourse that wants to recuperate
the linguistic charge of emotion" (10). I have only a vague idea of what
this means, and no idea of why it must be so obscurely expressed. Nor does
it help to say of Ovid that "elegiac subjectivity and didactic
objectivity, almost like the elements of an emulsion, naturally tend to
separate from each other, and they end up depositing a pure didactic form"
(50). Is "pure didactic form" different from "didactic objectivity"? Is
the
change physical as one "substance" drops from the "emulsion," or is the
precipitate a new compound formed by the literary equivalent of chemical
means? The simile only gets in the way, and when C. then claims that the
Remedia amoris "made authenticity the very form of its discourse"
(54), my pedantic soul begins to protest that the elegiac couplet is the
very form of its discourse. Not that C. cannot think and write clearly. He
is good on the Remedia's play on the topos of love as sickness
(35-44) and how the poem becomes not a palinode but a continuation of the
praeceptor's lesson in love (56-60). I agree with him about the inadequacy
of the Kreuzung der Gattungen notion (120-23) and the role of
allusion in neoteric poetry (136-37).
It is pleasant to see such comfortable ideas so elegantly expressed.

The virtues and limitations of C.'s approach are most apparent in the
chapter on Pliny. He has the happy idea of introducing Pliny by setting
the encyclopedist's passion in an intellectual context: "It is not the
explorer's glory that can ever belong to Pliny. Instead, his was the good
luck of coming at the beginning of a whole culture's autumn, when the
fruits of the great classical season had already ripened..." (70). Pliny
is "the first addressee" of the Greco-Roman book of nature, a transmitter
rather than creator of knowledge. As he himself proclaims at NH
11.8, he will point out manifest properties (naturas manifestas
indicare), not search for obscure causes (causas indagare
dubias). This is not quite the aphorism C. implies -- the context is
whether insects breathe -- but the general point is surely more true than
otherwise.4 C.'s approach yields an
appealing and appreciative treatment. Yet the picture starts to change its
character, if not its broad outline, when we start filling in the details
he omits.

There is indeed no text quite like Pliny's, but not
because encyclopedism was inconceivable before him. If Pliny lived in his
culture's autumn, that autumn was already over a century long. Though the
encyclopedic impulse can no longer be claimed for the elder Cato,
something very like it was certainly driving Varro, whose total oeuvre,
had it survived, would be at least as impressive as Pliny's.5 Nor are Pliny's organizing principles easily
categorized: a work on this scale defies generalization. C. nevertheless
tries to generalize, and with mixed results.

He draws, for
example, on Pliny's vast assortment of folk beliefs to illustrate how a
principle of natural sympathy and antipathy (odia amicitiaeque rerum
surdarum ac sensu carentium, 20.1) dominates his thinking. Thus, says C.,
deer's breath burns snakes and the odor of burnt deer's horn repels them
(NH 11.279; 10.195, cf. C. p. 93). Folk belief, however, is not so
easily rationalized. The efficacy of the burnt horn lies less in the deer
than in the burning. Pliny is talking at 10.195 about odors (at 11.279
the subject was breath). Not only does burnt deer horn drive away snakes,
but so especially (sed maxime, he goes on to say) does the smell
of styrax-tree gum. Even today -- the beliefs Pliny reports are by no
means restricted to ancient or pre-modern Europe -- burnt shoes and
tablecloths ward off snakes. Garlic around the bed and onions in the shoe
are supposed to work, just as the odor of gourds or mint planted around
the house is thought to repel mice and rats.6
Antipathy (odium) can be a factor: sprinkle the
ashes of a burned cat in your barn to ward off mice (the Romans of course
recommended a weasel). Yet likeness (amicitia) may also do the
trick: burn the mice you catch to discourage the others.7 No single principle explains such beliefs. The
material is too complex and varied, a fact Pliny perhaps appreciated
better than C. does. He works hard and enthusiastically to grasp the
significance of this extraordinary work, but his schematizing is
ultimately too parochial to do justice either to Pliny or to the
Historia Naturalis.

Much of Genres and Readers
seems
somewhat overblown, but none of it is without intelligence. What would
happen, I started to wonder, if C. dropped his oracular pose and set out
in plain language what he finds interesting and important in Latin
literature? The result might be compelling ... and so it proves.

It
is no mere hype to say that Conte's History of Latin Literature,
newly revised for this English edition, is not just an extraordinary
intellectual achievement but a genuinely wonderful book. Elegantly
translated by Joseph Solodow, it includes new sections on reception by
Glenn Most and bibliographies recast for Anglophone readers by Don
Fowler.8 Johns Hopkins has been generous,
permitting margins wide enough for subheadings (an almost forgotten luxury
these days), uncluttered pages, and clear type. Using this book is as
much a physical as an intellectual pleasure, which is a good thing since
it is destined to be used often. Its scope is immense, from Appius
Claudius Caecus and Livius Andronicus to Venantius Fortunatus and the
Venerable Bede, from the Twelve Tables to the dawn of national
literatures. This scale confers a double benefit. The sheer scope of
literary achievement in Latin is graphically displayed: 130 pages precede
Catullus (only a fraction of these dedicated to Plautus and Terence), and
over 150 remain after we finish with Apuleius. Detailed, sympathetic
treatments of figures like Macrobius and Jerome are not just interesting
in their own right, but encourage us to consider their roles in the
reception of classical literature. In addition to all this are four
appendices: a chronological table with parallel columns for Greek and
Roman milestones from 814 B.C. (Timaeus' date for the founding of Rome) to
A.D. 800 (the coronation of Charlemagne), an extremely useful list of
Greek authors and texts (where, as befits the ecumenical design, Paul of
Tarsus claims his rightful place between Parthenius of Nicaea and
Phanocles), an explanation of Roman cultural terms from
ambitio/ambitus to urbanitas/rusticitas (where even such
controversial concepts as amicitia and clientela are
judiciously presented), and a rather less satisfactory grab bag of
rhetorical, metrical and literary critical terms (tolerable on things like
anadiplosis
and intertextuality, much weaker on res metrica). The emphasis
throughout is on utility for newcomers and veterans alike.

C.'s
book thus meets an important need: other seemingly comparable works are
outdated or too uneven. Its very success, however, raises interesting
questions about the relationship of literary theory to critical practice
and about the stylistic registers we adopt for scholarly
communication.

For one thing, the work is quite traditional. There
is hardly a trace here of current debates over the objectives and methods
of literary history and its legitimacy as a scholarly enterprise.9 C. adopts without hesitation such familiar
headings as "The Age of Caesar" (surely Cicero would hesitate!), "The Age
of Augustus," and "The Dawn of the Middle Ages." His presentation is
largely chronological and distinctly author-centered: a typical entry
presents an author's life,
sources, works, reception, and bibliography in that order. All this is
far from dry. C. has fresh thoughts on almost every author; excellent
mini-essays on cultural and literary background bridge the inevitable
gaps. C. also understands the artificiality
of period divisions and is not afraid to violate them. Thus he
occasionally disrupts the chronological scheme to make connections across
their boundaries: discussion of Roman philology, for example, is delayed
until the end of "The Early Empire" to provide a continuous history from
Crates of Mallos to Aulus Gellius (pp. 571-87).

So predictable and
uniform a presentation facilitates consultation, but the price for this
administrative convenience is a certain loss of shape. An essay on
"Neoteric Poetry and Catullus," for example, rightly observes that the
emerging taste of the poetae novi "marks a decisive turn in the
history of Latin literature" (136), but the volume itself is too unwieldly
to negotiate so tight a corner. Nearly two hundred pages pass before,
following discussions of Cicero, Caesar, Vergil, Horace, and more, C.
returns to the neoteric legacy with Gallus and love elegy. All the pieces
are present, but not the patterns and not the creative energy that shaped
them. This is not necessarily a fault. C. has simply sacrificed fashion
for utility.10 Those responsible for
bringing this English version to fruition, however, have perhaps been less
sensitive to the underlying theoretical problems than is C. himself. The
Italian subtitle, manuale storico, is more honest, for this
is indeed a handbook rather than a narrative history. The fact remains,
however, that by largely ignoring theory, C. has produced a work that
every Latinist will want within reach.

This brings me to a second
point of interest, the striking difference in style between this and C.'s
other works. The same observations that in Genres and Readers
seemed belabored and obscure are here elegantly and compelling
presented. There are good pages, for example, on Lucretius and sublimity
(161-62). What C. really meant about Pliny and encyclopedism is now clear
and correct (499-502), and the generous treatment of Varro provides
important background (310-20). C.'s use of Latin examples can still be
problematic. He quotes, for example, Vergil on the tents of Rhesus,
"niveis tentoria velis / ... primo quae prodita somno / Tydides multa
vastabat
caede cruentus" (Aen. 1.469-71) and comments, "The reader
perceives the whiteness of the tents only to see them stained with
blood..." (283) as if Vergil had written cruenta.11 Such imprecision, however, is rare, and the
intellectual slip-and-slide of RI is not much in evidence. This is,
on the whole,
an honest book honestly presented.

I put it down at last with
immense respect for Professor Conte's knowledge and acumen, which now --
thinking back to Genres and Readers -- leaves me with a puzzle. C.
can write clearly. He has good things to say. He can use theory without
being
intimidated by it. He loves Latin literature and wants others to love it,
too. Why then is he ever turgid and imprecise?

NOTES

[1] G. B. Conte, The
Rhetoric of Imitation. Trans. from the Italian. Edited with a
Foreword
by Charles Segal (Ithaca 1986). Cf. Conte's comments now in Genres and
Readers, 130-31.

[2] Not all the Italian
originals have been available to me, but where I have been able to check,
the English translation accurately represents C.'s usage.

[4] Rival
'aphorisms' could be found, e.g. 17.132: "as we are inquiring into the
proper method not for a particular region but for the whole of nature"
("nobis non tractatus alicuius rationem verum naturae totius
indagantibus"). Natura and indagare sound significant, but
the method in question involves the grafting of plants.

[8] These
bibliographies, which do not ignore important scholarship in other
languages, are extremely well done, but Americans will detect a certain
privileging of British work. I first suspected this with the absence of
J.T. Ramsey's excellent edition of the Bellum Catilinae (a
best-selling APA textbook) from the Sallust bibliography, where even
McGushin's commentary on the Penguin translation gets a mention. I became
sure of it by the time I reached Vergil, which singles out Aeneid
translations by Jasper Griffin and David West (no Fitzgerald or
Mandelbaum), ignores W.S. Anderson's The Art of the Aeneid in favor
of lesser books by Camps, Gransden, and (R.D.) Williams, and recommends
Johnson's Darkness Visible (too brilliant and too American?)
merely
for its introductory survey of twentieth-century opinions.

[9] The introductory essay "Literary History and
Historiography" (pp. 1-10) alludes -- without bibliography -- to the
theorists' concerns. For the nature of the problem, see L. Patterson,
"Literary History" in Critical Terms for Literary Study, edd. F.
Lentricchia and T. McLaughlin (Chicago 1990) 250-62 and D. Perkins, Is
Literary History Possible? (Baltimore 1992).

[10]
Contrast
the New History of French Literature (Cambridge, MA 1989), whose
theory-wise editors produced a much more innovative and dramatic volume --
winning the MLA's equivalent of the Goodwin prize for their effort -- but
not nearly as useful a reference work as C.'s.

[11]
The English translation provided, "... the snowy-white canvas of the
tents ... and Diomedes laying waste to them, bloodied with slaughter,"
supports C.'s comment with an ambiguity not found in the original. This
tendency
to fudge in C.'s direction is characteristic of RI.